Poem Body
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The neighbors are fucking again.
One slab of meat slapping off the other:
greedy, porcine. He grunts, she grunts.
My cigarette heats a fingernail
bringing me back to my own frigid hands.
I ping it far enough to land in their garden.
She squeals; her Polish is music. I wonder
if she sounds like that when he's out of her.
I see my empty bed and my eyes fall
cuntwards.
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Comments
Hello Violet,
I have no criticism of this. Just appreciation, and some envy, its so good.
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Thank you so much, Jim, for passing through. It's appreciated!
Violet
Raw emotions and feelings expressed without mincing words.
Regards,
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Thank you, Raj. Glad you came by.
Violet,
Reality is such a harsh thing but in poetry
is really quite beautiful,
thanks for sharing this slice with us.
Richard
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Ahh, yes. Reality is a bit of an enemy at times. And that cigarette was the best weapon I had at that moment ;)
Violet
A good visual of someone that is alone, where just the heat of a cigarette brings back reality,
Yours Ian.T